A Reckoning

Chapter Four

Chapter FourIn the late afternoon, he set out across the plain towards Fort Bridger. Simms followed the ancient trail snaking through the land, a trail so old nobody knew of its origins. Some said it was an old Ute pathway. If it was, they no longer used it. Only pilgrims and homesteaders did so now. He passed a few, plodding along in slow, weary processions, sometimes a dozen or more wagons snaking by. Some acknowledged him, some grabbed for their rifles, most simply kept their eyes set firmly ahead. Simms wondered how many of them would make it.

On the second day, after a breakfast of salted biscuits and steaming coffee, he spotted a cluster of half-erected buildings and turned his horse towards them. Set in the shadow of a small mountain range, the jagged grey peaks soaring way above the tree line, the buildings were close to completion. Men laboured in the cold, their exertions rendering the need for coats unnecessary, their breath steaming in the sharp air. Approaching them at an easy gait, when he was within earshot, Simms pulled up his horse and leaned forward in his saddle, observing the workers hammering nails, fitting joists and securing wood panels for the walls. A broad, heavily built individual, sporting a black Derby hat, sauntered over. He smoked a cigar and regarded Simms with obvious wariness, eyes narrowed, coat pulled back to reveal a handgun holstered at his hip.

“Good day to you,” he said, his accent strange, not unlike Martinson's, the Swedish merchant who continued to run a store and eating place just outside of Bovey, despite the mines having dried up years before.

Simms grunted, motioning towards the construction work. “Seems a mite strange to be building a home all the way out here.”

The man tilted his head, cigar clamped between his teeth. “It's not a home, mister, it's a staging post. Now, if I could ask you what you—”

“A staging post? You mean, a stage will run through here?”

“A stagecoach, yes. What's your interest, mister?”

“I'm sheriff over in Glory,” said Simms, emphasising the point by drawing back his coat to reveal the star pinned to his vest. He also made sure the man got a good glimpse of the Dragoon at his side.

The man munched on the cigar, punctuating his words with puffs of thick smoke. “I see. Well, my name is O'Shaughnessy, Liam O'Shaughnessy. You may have heard of me?”

Simms stared back, nothing stirring in his memory.

“Well,” the man puffed up his chest, as well as his cigar. “Me and my colleagues have been hired by the stagecoach company as security for these here workers,” he jerked a thumb behind him towards the men labouring away at the construction of the buildings, “so I'll be asking you to move on, if you don't mind.” He grinned. “Sheriff.”

Another grunt, and Simms twisted around to survey the mountains, the various passes, outcrops and clumps of undergrowth which hyphenated the jagged rock face. “This is a dangerous area, Mr O'Shaughnessy. It would be my advice to post sentries, night and day. You have horses here, and Bannocks want horses.”

“Bannocks? What in the hell are they?”

“Indians. There's a lot of Indians around here, and most of them are mean and desperate, so you'd best be prepared.”

“Bah,” O'Shaughnessy leaned to his right, pulling out the cigar, and spat into the dirt, “I ain't got no worries about Indians, Mister Sheriff. Only white folk looking for mischief.” He fastened the cigar between his teeth again. “Of whatever kind.”

Straightening himself in his saddle, Simms gave a final sweeping glance across the building site and sighed, “Well, all my best to you and I hope it all goes according to plan.”

“Oh, it will. Don't you worry about that none.”

“No, I won't.” Simms doffed his hat and turned his horse away, a little riled at O'Shaughnessy's gruff manner, curious why he seemed so anxious for Simms to leave. He made a mental note to look through the records to see if there was anything pending on Mr Liam O'Shaughnessy and, if there was, he may well return for a second, more searching visit.